Page 73 of The Year of the Witching

“She did.”

Something like triumph passed through the apostle’s eyes. “And is it your mother’s god you pray to in the night? Is it her beasts you call to?”

“They weren’t her beasts. They belong to no one.”

“And yet they obey you.”

Immanuelle shook her head. “They heed no one.”

At that, the apostle smiled, as if the two of them shared somedirty secret. He drew closer, his boots scuffing across the floor, and dropped to a crouch at her side. “But Ezra heeds your every whim, doesn’t he?”

It was the first Immanuelle had heard of him in what felt like weeks. The sound of his name alone was enough to fill her with a heady mix of dread and fear and hope. She wanted to ask if he was still alive, and if so in what condition, but was too afraid for fear of what the apostle’s answer would be.

“Ezra always heeds your call, doesn’t he?” the apostle asked again, annoyed by her silence. “He had a hand in your schemes?”

Immanuelle didn’t know how to answer. If she said no, she would assume full responsibility for all the accusations the apostle leveled against her. The punishment for her crimes would be death by purging, and if she died on the pyre before she had the chance to reverse the plagues, Bethel was all but doomed. But if she answered yes, Ezra could be deemed an accomplice, or even culpable for her transgressions. What would the charge for such a crime be? Conspiracy against the Church, perhaps? Holy treason? The former was a punishment of fifty lashes, the latter death.

But the future prophet couldn’t be executed, could he? Would they dare lay the lash upon his shoulders? Or worse yet, send him to the pyre?

A sharp burning snapped Immanuelle to attention and she yelped, snatching her hand away.

The apostle loomed above her, his candle tipped to the side so the hot wax had spilled onto her hand. “Answer the question, girl.”

Immanuelle picked her words carefully, scraping wax flakes from the back of her hand. “Ezra is my friend. He heeds me as a friend would.”

“And what is the nature of your friendship?”

“He gave me books to read. We talked about poetry and the Scriptures.”

The apostle leaned forward, sneering. When he spoke, his breath was hot against her cheek. “Did you lie with each other?”

She stiffened. “No.”

Whether the apostle believed her or not, Immanuelle couldn’t tell. He stood and turned his back to her, stalking toward the cell door. “You’re a sick, sinful girl, do you know that?”

Immanuelle almost smiled in spite of it all. “So I’ve been told.”

The apostle suddenly doubled back to her and tipped the candle once more. Burning wax splattered across her cheeks and she winced. It was all she could do to keep from weeping, but she refused to give him the pleasure.

“I have a surprise for you,” said the apostle, stepping aside so Immanuelle had a clear view of the hall. The candlelight’s glow illuminated the corridor, and a familiar face soon appeared behind the bars: Martha.

She wore a black wool cloak that she typically reserved for funerals. The hood hung low, casting a shadow over her eyes. “Hello, Immanuelle.”

At the sight of her grandmother, Immanuelle straightened, pressing herself against the cell wall so the cobbles cut into her back. “What do you want from me?”

“That’s no way to greet the woman who raised you,” the apostle chided.

Immanuelle kept her eyes on Martha. Her chains rattled across the floor as she drew back. “She’s no kin to me.”

A damp wind licked down the hallway. The torch flared and Martha’s candle sputtered out. “I was only trying to help you, Immanuelle.”

“Helpme? You betrayed me.”

“I tried to save you, as best I was able to.”

“You said you’d let me go.”

“I did,” said Martha, drawing closer. “And I have. That’s why you’re here in contrition, to be let go. To be released from your sins and forgiven.”

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